Contagious Insanity
by Lostoyannaya
Summary: Ch2 up! Something's a little off kilter with Chekov. But what has this to do with his parent's deaths? And why was he trying to keep them a secret from those around him?
1. Lost

**Ch-1: Lost**

--

Disclaimer--Telephone Transcript (picked up by lieutenant Uhura)

GENE: Lost? Are you there? Are you listening?

LOSTOYANNAYA: Yes?

GENE: We've reviewed your contract. Apparently, you don't own Star Trek. You do, however, own a character called "Kestra", and a planet called "Dyana Prime".

LOSTOYANNAYA: I'll trade you Dyana Prime for Star Trek.

GENE: No.

LOSTOYANNAYA: Rats.

--

A/N: This 'fic was mainly inspired by the line in "Who Mourns For Adonais?", where Chekov asks to help with Palamas and Kirk turns him down on the preface that he's too young. How is he too young? Was this an excuse? Am I just paranoid? Will we ever find out? Oh, and it's not a one-chapter-shot.

--

It was starting to rain, the soft flicks of water swirling around the leaves on the trees, making them droop and drip, sag under the weight of the drizzle. The soil, blue, unusually soft, was starting to run like a small brook down the man-made footpath, gurgling and hissing like a badly draining sewer. The tree trunks were an unruly bright pink and made of a rubbery substance that made them bend in the wind, which whipped around the waist-high razor sharp bushes, making them thrash at the assorted away team members stood in them.

The women, in their short miniskirts and knee-high boots, had already been transported back up to the ship for fear of being hurt and stung by the poison all of the plants seemed to carry. The transporter room was on stand-by for the men. But one was missing.

'Ensign Chekov!' Kirk cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted into the oncoming storm, but the wind cruelly through the words right back at him and he winced as though they physically stung him. 'It's no good!' He shouted to McCoy, who was stood just to his left but was nearly deaf to his yell. 'We're going to have to go back to the ship! We can locate him using the sensors!'

'Possibly not, Captain!' Spock's ears were sharper than the doctor's, but he leant towards the Captain when he realised Kirk couldn't hear him. 'The sensors will not be able to function during this storm! It's throwing up too much magnetic disturbance!'

'Damn systems.' Grumbled McCoy, to himself at that volume. 'They hardly ever seem to work.'

Kirk looked between his two first officers, then shook his head, pulling out his communicator once more. 'Scotty - three to beam up.'

A second later, they dissolved into flecks smaller than the raindrops.

--

A quarter of a smile east from where the remaining landing party had beamed up, Chekov's eyes flickered open and his stomach lurched sickeningly in no particular direction. He sat up, closing his eyes once more, white stars dancing before them as his head screamed with pain, then looked at the branch beside him, frowning. He must have been knocked out when it snapped off the tree - he felt the side of his face and his hand came away bloody. He sighed, the slight sound carried away into the storm, and hugged up under the tree.

His hand went to his belt, and he looked down, peering through the rain, when he discovered his communicator was not there. He groaned and sat back against the tree, wincing when his head connected with the soft bark, and pulled his knees up to his chest. It would be impossible to find his communicator in this storm - and, besides, it was quite dry under the tree's wide, sweeping branches.

'Typical.' He said, the noise also carried away by the wind, 'The one night in weeks I have a date and I get lost.' He peered along the horizon-line, just in case he could spot the away team, but the horizon was about three feet in front of his nose and he soon gave up hope. He remembered the advice given to every cadet in their security training - if you get lost, separated from the team, _stay where you are. _You'll not do any good going further away from them and getting lost.

Who had told him that? He couldn't remember; Starfleet Academy seemed a light year and a half away, along with textbooks, exams and Irina. His chest tightened and he sighed again to let out the pain - he'd never known a memory of someone inflict physical pain, but you learn something new every day. His mind wondered back to her, though - it always did - and he found himself remembering the way she'd sit in front of the mirror for hours, running those damn hair tongs through the ends of her hair to make it bounce, then further hours picking the make-up, the clothes, those flowers that smelt of cinnamon to thread into her hair, then hours out with that hippie group, unofficial seminars given by that damn Sevrin -

Thunder clapped overheard and startled him out of his bitter reverie. He looked around, relieved to see that the rain was letting up and he could now see about three hundred metres now, and he got to his feet to stretch his cold legs, stop them from going numb.

Over the next half hour or so, the rain slowed to a drip and then stopped completely, and the wind slowed to a low moan. He was stood underneath a large rubbery tree in the middle of a large field, forest to the left and right, and the landing party was nowhere in sight. He looked down at the ground, searching the immediate area for his communicator, then gave up and put a hand up to shield his eyes from the newly emerging green sun. He knew now that it was only a matter of time before the Enterprise was able to get her sensors back online and Spock would find him with that creepy precision of his, and soon he'd be standing high and dry on the transporter pad, glad to be home.

When another hour passed, and this didn't happen, Chekov started to worry. Not panic - that was two steps up from worry - but worry. The days on Dyana Prime were notoriously short and this shortness was uneven - there could be three hours of sunlight one day, and seven the next. No-one could account for it - not even the Vulcan scientists - and it made him uneasy. He liked routine, almost to such a point that it drove those around him insane, and the total disorder of his predicament as making him nervous.

_Snap_.

A twig snapped somewhere to his left, in the forest, and he backed away towards the right, suddenly very, very anxious. He felt for his phaser but found this missing as well, and continued backing away.

Then a twig snapped behind him, and he turned, and screamed at what he saw.

--

'Anything?' Asked Kirk, agitatedly, distractedly, looking over Spock's shoulder at the scanner. The Vulcan tolerated this for a few seconds before moving discreetly to one side and shaking his head.

'No.' He said bluntly. 'The storm has lifted from the eastern continent but the magnetic disturbance is still there.'

'Analysis?'

'Unknown. It is an unusual occurrence.'

'Jim.' McCoy put a hand on the Captain's shoulder as he started rubbing his face with both hands. 'Get some sleep. Lie down. Sit down. Take some headache tablets. But most of all - _stop worrying_.'

Kirk pulled away - almost in the manor of a schoolboy - and stalked to his chair, sat. 'Bones, I don't rest whilst a crewman is missing.' He said snappishly, crossing his legs, uncrossing them, standing up and pacing. 'Especially not such a new crewman as Chekov. He's young, inexperienced. Anything could happen to him and -'

'- The responsibility is on your shoulders. We got it, Jim.' McCoy nodded patiently. 'But we'll find him. We always find them. And you ripping yourself apart up here isn't going to speed that up in any way.'

'I know.' Kirk snapped. 'I know,' He continued, calmer. 'I'll have a prescription for a bowl of soup.'

McCoy raised his eyebrows. 'Soup?' He repeated. 'Soup?'

'Romulan soup.' Kirk corrected himself.

'Ah.' Smirked McCoy. 'Romulan"_soup_".'

--

How many hours had it been? Surely it had been a day? Why had it been a day? Why hadn't they saved him yet?

He was still running - faster than he ever had done before - through the sharp-leafed bushes, the trees, those sharp branches that tore at his shirt, arms, hips, legs. The only things that were safe from them were his feet, but the pain in them was pounding in unison with his heart. He had to stop for another break - had to - he was going to faint soon. But he could hear that...that _thing_ behind him, and if he stopped it would catch him, and then -

Well, then he didn't know. And he didn't want to know. He didn't want to know like he didn't want to keep running, but he had to...he _had_ to...

He tripped. Whether it was a root or a branch he didn't know, but one minute he was upright and running, and the next moment he was floored and screaming. He tried to get to his feet again but his leg screeched at him in pain and he fell back down, into the mud. He turned onto his back, saw the sky first, and then that..._thing_ loomed over him and the next thing he saw was blackness.

--

A/N: R and R...or else.

--


	2. Found

Found

--

--

It had been three days now and even the ever-optimistic McCoy was having second thoughts about the possibility of locating the Enterprise's missing crewman. Kirk had not slept a wink; he remained sat almost bolt-upright in his chair, ordering cups of vicious Replicator-replicated coffee from Rand whenever she ventured onto the Bridge, becoming moody, irritable and snappish. Uhura - who was almost as worried as Kirk about the location of her friend, almost but not quite - was keeping a constant vigil on her communications console, as stubborn as her Captain.

Then, at midday on the third day, Spock looked up from the science console, eyebrow threatening to arch. 'Life form detected, Captain. Human, life signs weak and weakening.'

Kirk jumped up as though stung and set a record for speed from his chair to the science officer. 'Chekov?' He asked.

'Almost positive.' Spock replied, indifferent to Kirk's excitement. 'No other humanoid life forms inhabit the planet.'

'Coordinates?'

'Momentarily.'

The scan for Chekov's immediate coordinates took several seconds, seconds that seemed like hours, and then Spock nodded. 'Bridge to Transporter Room, coordinates of ensign Chekov are being transmitted to you through computer panel one.'

Scott's voice answered. 'Aye, and about time too.' He said. 'Locking on and energising.'

Kirk pointed to McCoy as he made his way to the Turbolift doors. 'Get nurse Chapel. And a medical team. Meet us in the Transporter Room. Hurry.' Were his disjointed parting words.

--

As McCoy later put it, Chekov didn't so much need a medical team as a miracle. ('Damn it, Jim, I'm a doctor - not a miracle worker!' Were his actual words). His left arm was broken - shattered in some places - as were three ribs, puncturing his lung, and his right knee. He was starved - nothing on the planet was palatable - unconscious, and along with the breakages were horrific cuts and slashes, covering most of his arms and legs. His face was nearly unscathed, save a few mild scratches and a bruise adorning his left eye.

'The larger scratches were made by an animal of some kind.' Chapel observed, showing her tricorder readings to the doctor. 'And they're heavily infected. Looks like a poison of some kind.'

'I'm not surprised.' Said McCoy, truthfully. 'Nine out of ten of the plants on that godforsaken planet were poisonous. And the other half were noxious. You couldn't win. I thought Spock said there were no other life readings on the planet?'

'He said there were no other _humanoid_ life forms on the planet.' Chapel corrected defensively. McCoy dropped his case.

--

'Is he recovering?' Were Uhura's first words as she walked quickly into Sickbay. 'Is he going to be alright?'

Chapel and nurse Kestra were on duty. It was Chapel who answered. 'Scotty's the miracle worker, Nyota.' She said gently. She looked over her shoulder at the invalid and shrugged. 'But in my opinion, yes. His life signs are a little weaker than we'd have liked, but aside from that...the infection's all but dried up and the deeper wounds are starting to heal. It's whether or not he chooses to wake up or go into a deeper sleep that's worrying us right now.'

Uhura looked alarmed. 'What are the chances of that happening?' She asked loudly, startling McCoy out of the few minutes of sleep he was catching up on in his office. He'd been keeping a close eye on Chekov's condition for the past thirty-six hours - more for Jim's sake than Pavel's - and was nearly exhausted. He found the strength to get to his feet and wander out into the girl's conversation.

'What are the chances of what happening?' He asked, keeping the bleariness out of his voice with professional stamina. 'Lieutenant?' He added.

'Of Chekov going into a coma, doctor.' Uhura replied anxiously. 'He won't, will he?'

'Of course not!' McCoy reassured her, the same stamina that was maintaining his voice maintaining his false smile. Truth be told, he had absolutely no idea. 'We would not allow such a thing to happen.' He continued. 'His vital signs are perking up -' _Slowly_. '- And he has no brain damage -' _On the surface...I couldn't comment on what's going on in his sub-consciousness_. '- And his wounds are healing, the infection is gone. There's no reason he should.' _But there's also no reason he shouldn't._

She still appeared doubtful and he put an arm around her as he led her to the door. 'You'll be the first person I call when he wakes up, lieutenant.' _You and Jim_. 'Because after being alone on a planet for three days he'll need all the friends he has.'

'Promise?' Asked Uhura.

'Promise.' Echoed the doctor.

--

It was another week before Chekov came back to the land of the living, and on the first day officially awake he was disorientated and unaware of anything around him. On the second day, however, he woke up bright and cheerful - despite the hunger pains - and pleased to see Uhura and Sulu. The three days alone hadn't seem to weigh on his heart so much as his vocal chords, and he spoke almost non-stop for a couple of hours to anyone who would talk back; when Uhura and Sulu had to go back on duty, it was Chapel, and when Kestra relieved her it was Kestra.

The only thing that seemed to put a dent in his cheerfulness was when McCoy asked him what had attacked him. He frowned, trying to think, and the doctor could have sworn he saw a flicker of panic behind Chekov's eyes. Then the curious expression disappeared and the ensign shrugged uneasily. 'I don't remember.' Was his verdict.

'Suppressed memory.' McCoy concluded later to Kirk. 'Perhaps he passed out halfway through being attacked, or perhaps when it was over he simply forgot about it. Your mind has a funny way of protecting you. The only thing we have to worry about on that front is making sure the memory doesn't suddenly come back - that means hypno-therapy for at least a month or two.'

'Sounds fun.' Kirk nodded. 'How long before he can return to active duty?'

'Hard to say. Mentally he's ready for it, but physically he's still weak. Before this morning he hadn't eaten for...say, two weeks. Only intravenously. He needs at least a week's recuperation and then a couple of days of physiotherapy, which is nurse Kestra's speciality.'

'Have his parents been notified of his injuries?'

McCoy looked horrified. 'Jim!'

'What?' Kirk looked nonplussed. 'What did I say?'

'Chekov's parents have been dead for six years.' McCoy said quietly. 'A bad shuttle accident on Calexico, on a family holiday. He got into Starfleet on an orphan grant, remember?'

Kirk's eyes cleared. 'Oh - yes. Yes, I do. Well - doesn't he have a next of kin?'

'He put down an old friend of his on his entry form - Irina someone-or-other - but no. Ironically, both of his parents were also orphans. Hence, no living relatives.'

Kirk shook his head moodily. 'Thank god I never mentioned them to him!' He said to himself. 'Alright, Bones.' He said to McCoy. 'Keep me informed.'

'I will.' Promised the doctor. _I seem to be doing a damn lot of promising._

--

It was later that week they discovered something was seriously wrong with Chekov.

--

--

_Run. You have to run faster. Because if you don't...I'll catch you. And if I catch you, that's the end of you, boy._

The monster hadn't actually spoken to him whilst it had chased him through the woods, it's heavy feet crushing twigs and leaves, it's hot breath inches from his neck, it's sharp claws reaching out to grab him...and yet in this nightmare it had taken on the voice of his father, slurred with drink, of course, coming home late at night and waking everyone up with his shoutings and ravings, it wasn't his fault he'd lost his job, it was Anastasia's...where was that little cow...can't find her...move on to next target...

_Pavel? Pavel, where are you? Daddy wants a word..._

But he hadn't wanted a word, he'd wanted a fight. 'All little boys should grow up strong.' Had been his excuse to Anastasia when she tried and stopped him from beating the life out of her small son. 'It's the drink.' Had been her excuse the next day on the way to the hospital. But Pavel thought he knew better. His dad had been like that long before the drink begun, and back then his mother had used the long hours Partonov worked as an justification of his violent ways.

And before that...well, there was no before that. His mother had gotten pregnant at the end of her high school years; she'd married Partonov as a last resort. Neither parent had had any kind of compassion for one another, something which made a small part of him hate them both. True, his mother was a saint compared to his father, but there was always the time when he'd accidentally spilt paint on the kitchen table and she had whacked him round the head with the spatula she'd been cooking with, scalding his cheek with hot soup and then refusing him any ice for it; or the time he'd wanted to go and play and she'd kept him in to help with all of her chores; the time it had snowed and she hadn't allowed him outside in case he got cold (they had lived in a relatively warm part of Russia, only a few miles from the Chinese border).

Sometimes he thought it was over-protectiveness, sometimes he knew it was selfishness. She blamed him for her horrendous marriage to a drunken low-life, for the fact she had no qualifications, for...well, basically everything. She went into overdrive, sometimes - making him study all hours, friends could come after he graduated. She'd wanted him to become a chemist like she had wanted to, but he was hopeless with formulas and chemical balances and the like, and had eventually escaped her by joining Starfleet Academy.

One year later and she was dead; and it was not because of a shuttle accident. That was the lie, that small hidden truth he kept buried deep down inside him, had only ever made the mistake of telling one person once. His father had come home drunk, unusually depressed...killed his wife...shot himself...orphaned his only son.

_Run, Pavel. Run all you like. Tire yourself out! Then I'll get you. I'll catch you. I'll -_

That was when, in the dream, he tripped over the log or the root or whatever it was and went crashing down, breaking his knee open and shouting out in startled pain. Trying to get up, turning over, seeing -

'Chekov! For god's sake, wake up! Chekov!' It hadn't shaken his shoulders, calling his name and telling him to - wake up? _Wake up. Wake up._ His head repeated it like a mantra as the monster leaned down over him, mouth open, that disgusting breath slathering over him, and -

_Slap_. A spark of pain over his left cheek banished the illusion away, and suddenly he was sat bolt-upright in Sickbay, face buried in Uhura's slender shoulder, crying in sheer terror of that hideous _thing_...She had her arms around his shoulders and was consoling him, rocking him backwards and forwards like his mother would sometimes after he and his father had had a "fight".

'It's alright, Pavel. It's alright, it's gone now.' Uhura looked up at Sulu, who shrugged back, and continued rubbing Chekov's back slowly. 'It's alright.'

He pulled away suddenly, staring at her with those huge brown eyes of his, then looked around Sickbay wildly, breaths coming in short sharp sobs. 'I can hear it!' He nearly shouted, and his tone was not that of a sane man. 'Oh, God, I can hear it, it's coming this way, it is, it is!'

'What's coming this way?' Asked Sulu. He wished Kestra would hurry up in coming back with McCoy. 'Chekov, what's coming this way?'

'That - that - that - _thing_.' Pavel buried his face in his hands, starting to tremble badly. 'That thing in the forest. The thing that chased me...' He waved one of his lightly bandaged arms at Uhura in almost a threatening manor. 'The thing that tried to kill me!'

Uhura nodded slowly. 'The thing that gave you all these cuts?' She asked, taking hold of Pavel's arm gently and stroking the bandage. 'It was an animal of some kind?' It was almost like talking to a little child who'd just woken up from a nightmare; Pavel shook his head vehemently, pulling his arm away and curling up slightly.

'It wasn't an animal.' He said quietly, more calm. 'It wasn't like anything I'd ever seen before.'

'Can you relate it to anything?' Uhura perched on the side of the bed. 'I mean, was it _like_ a bear, or a big cat of some kind?'

'As big as a bear.' Pavel said even quieter. 'But heavier. And it's fur was a weird colour...' He frowned in concentration. 'I've...I've never seen the colour it was before...but it was big, and heavy, and it _stunk_...' His voice was starting to speed up and Uhura shushed him. '...And it had large teeth...it was as big as a bear...but looked nothing like a bear...'

It was then that McCoy arrived, looked tired and dishevelled, and ordered that Chekov be put back to sleep - a dreamless sleep. That was when the real problems started - suddenly wild, suddenly full of anger and hatred, shouting and screaming that he would not go to sleep, he would not because the monster would come and get him and if it did it meant his father could also, and then simply babbling like a mad man, Pavel knocked McCoy out of the way and tried for the door. Sulu and Uhura caught him, Kestra rushed up with a hypospray, and after a brief struggle he was subdued. Sulu and McCoy dragged him back to the bed and lay him down, Uhura and Kestra hovering.

'I've never seen him like that.' Uhura intoned quietly. 'I can't believe it...'

'None of us can.' Said Sulu. 'What was he talking about - his father coming to get him? I thought he was...' He gestured at Chekov's unconscious form, not wanting to say it. '...Parentless.' He said in the end.

'He is, but that's not to say that his father terrorized him before he died.' McCoy was striding over to the wall comm. system. 'Sickbay to Security.'

'_Lieutenant DeSalle here_.'

'I need two guards posted in Sickbay to mind a potentially dangerous patient.'

'_Will do, sir. Myself and Rhodes should suffice._'

'Thank you, lieutenant.' McCoy turned back to Kestra. 'Get the straps.'

'Straps?' Echoed Uhura. 'Oh, doctor, no - you can't tie him down like that! He was scared, that's all...he had this terrible nightmare that scared the life out of him, and when you said you'd put him back to sleep he was frightened...'

'Then why, lieutenant,' Said McCoy firmly, 'Did he not just tell me he was frightened like a civilised man? Why did he instead behave like a total lunatic?'

'He was scared.' Uhura said, equally as firmly.

'So was I.' The doctor returned. 'Now, I'm afraid you and lieutenant Sulu will have to leave. Don't argue, Uhura. It's for his best interest, I promise you.'

Uhura opened her mouth to argue, but Sulu too her arm and shook his head when she looked at him. She looked between the two men, then sighed and allowed herself to be escorted to the door, and out into the corridor.

--

Kestra kneaded her knuckles into her eyes once more, then blinked rapidly, trying to banish the sleep from them. A little over two weeks ago she'd agreed to take over Chapel's night shifts, as the older nurse needed a break, and she had accepted quite happily. Now, however, she was feeling in need of a good night's sleep herself.

She looked over at where Chekov lay perfectly still on the medi-bed and sighed at the sight of the straps on his wrists and ankles. _Tethering down in this day and age - what will they think of next?_ She thought idly, picking up her stylus and continuing to write the report on the padd again. McCoy had left earlier to attend a routine staff meeting, and it was only she and Rhodes who were in Sickbay - consciously, that is. She'd frowned down at the padd - she'd never gotten along with Rhodes, he was too smug, too show-offy, too proud of himself. _Look at me, I'm a Redshirt_. His manor said. If Kestra was Rhodes, she wouldn't want to broadcast that fact too much - especially not on away missions.

She sighed again, this time from tiredness, then stood and stretched. Then stopped. Looked over her shoulder, around under her desk, puzzled.

'What's the matter?' Asked Rhodes, negatively toned. He could almost have continued, _Lost your hairbrush?_

'I...I thought I heard something.' Said Kestra. And she honestly thought she had - a low growl, barely audible above the hum and tick of Chekov's monitor, but a growl all the same. 'Did you?'

'Only that damn heart monitor.' Said the Redshirt.

_Charming_. Thought Kestra. 'Alright,' She said wearily. 'Perhaps it's just me. I must be tired.'

'You look it.'

_Thanks a bunch, heathen_. She sat back down with a thump and picked up her stylus, noticing her hand was shaking. Shaking with what? She wasn't cold, she wasn't hungry...no...she was angry. _Stupid Rhodes and his stupid petty way of thinking and his stupid uniform and..._She stopped, feeling suddenly quite faint, and then the growl came again and this time, it was from right behind her.

She turned around, saw what Chekov had seen on the surface, and abruptly fainted with a shrill scream.

--


End file.
